


Brewing

by pbandfluff



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 01:13:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1285696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pbandfluff/pseuds/pbandfluff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-S4 fix-it, where histories and plans brew over coffee, tea, and pasts not mentioned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brewing

**Author's Note:**

> I think I started writing this after the S4 finale as a fix-it, with the line “My mother’s…” to start with and it’s been bugging me to write it so I took a break from my AUs to finish it and sort of get back into the swing of writing after not being in a good writing place. Not quite sure if I fixed things or just made them hurt. Italicized quotes are meant to be the opposite half of phone conversations.

"What brought you to San Francisco, Miss Howland?"

You glance up over the cup of overpriced coffee that your supervisor insisted on paying for. The steam from your drink drifts up in front of your glasses, sticking to the lenses and blurring your view of said supervisor. You quickly puff a breath up over your upper lip to clear the fogginess and shrug tightly.

"Work," you answer succinctly, and it’s not a lie. San Francisco offers quite a few more opportunities for someone with your qualifications than your home town does.

”Only work?” your supervisor drawls with an arch of her eyebrow, as if she knows your answer is only a half-truth.

"Work was the one that counts," you respond quietly, holding her gaze. She nods slightly, some strange emotion flickering in her dark eyes before becoming lost as she pushes back one of the locks of her salt and pepper streaked hair.

"Are you liking San Francisco?" she changes the subject, leaning forward and picking up her cup of tea with all the grace of royalty. You sip at your coffee in a way that seems almost plebeian in comparison and consider your answer.

"It’s warm," you finally settle on, glancing outside at the late evening sunset. "Relatively speaking."

Out of the corner of your eye you see her turn to stare outside as well. You raise your cup to your lips once more, and face her again, only to realize your comments have dredged up some memory, for Miss Lake’s eyes are distant and cold, flittering nervously as she stares at the horizon over the water. You allow her the moments she needs to come back to the conversation, content to drink your coffee and stare at the table while your mind churns steadily in the background.

"It is a sudden change," she speaks suddenly, her voice having taken on an odd, unnerving tone, "to be out from the cold."

She turns to you and smiles, her eyes still distant. “Isn’t it?”

Somehow, you don’t think she’s talking about the weather anymore.

——

"Do you mind if I take this call?"

Miss Lake is motioning towards her cell phone and you wave her on. While most people hold taking a phone call to be rude, you’ve never understood the social taboo surrounding it. As she answers and greets her caller in a low, softened voice, you take the time to pull your own phone out and check your messages and email. You notice your mother has called you once again, and you hit the delete button on her message perhaps a touch too vehemently. You don’t hate your mother, but you need to be in the right mindset to talk to her without wanting to shoot something or eat a whole tub of ice cream.

Miss Lake continues talking in the background, and you pick up bits and pieces of her conversation without meaning to. When she says her goodbyes and hangs up, you tuck your phone away in your pocket as well before picking your glass of lemonade up as if the phone call had never happened. Miss Lake sighs lightly, taking a sip of her own drink before smiling slightly at you over the rim of her glass.

"What brought you to San Francisco?" you ask suddenly, remembering the conversation all those weeks ago.

Miss Lake looks up at you in surprise, before the corners of her eyes crinkle and a coy grin tugs at her lips.

"Family," she answers plainly, with a gleam in her eyes that tells you she’s throwing your original lack of explanation back at you. Unlike her, you’re content with one-word answers.

"Daughter?" you shoot back, inclining your head towards where her phone rests in her coat pocket.

"Of a sort," she replies quickly, eyes only half-warming with her answer.

You nod, thankful when one of the baristas interrupts to check on your table.

It’s nice to know family is complicated no matter who you are.

——

"May I ask a personal question?"

Your body locks up for a moment, because that question has never ended well, but you take a deep breath and remember that you actually like this woman and nod your acquiescence.

"What exactly does the tattoo on your right shoulder say?"

You blink rapidly as you process the question.

“‘It is possible to believe’.”

The answer is out before you consider it, but Miss Lake merely cocks her head slightly and mulls the answer over.

"I assume it is a quote?" she asks, lifting her cup of tea to her lips.

You nod. “It is possible to believe that all the past is but the beginning of the beginning. That all that is and has been is but the twilight of the dawn. It is possible to believe that all the human mind has ever accomplished is but the dream before the awakening.”

As you’ve been quoting the full lines, Miss Lake’s face has gone a bit slack, her cup of tea dangling precariously between loose-gripped fingers.

You shrug, somehow embarrassed at her shock, and raise your glass of iced tea up to drink in a move to cover your face.

"It’s H.G. Wells," you explain weakly, already regretting divulging the information.

Miss Lake’s mouth works silently for a moment before she regains her composure and sets her tea down.

"I take it you’re a fan?" she tries helpfully, mouth still worried with confusion.

You nod sharply, taking a long draw of your drink. “The books were a gift one year,” you murmur in another explanation, “I used to read them at night when I couldn’t sleep.”

The conversation goes silent, and you take deep, cooling breaths to try and stave off the blush you can feel creeping up your face. This is why you don’t tell people about your tattoo.

"Are you well-read, then?" Miss Lake asks, her face shifting to a casual nonchalance that suggests she’s just ignored your previous conversation. For once, you are grateful for the ability of willful ignorance, and take a sip of your iced tea before answering.

When you both rise to leave some time later, you pretend not to notice how Miss Lake stares at you differently.

There are some things in which ignorance truly is bliss.

——

"Do you have plans?"

You were hired to your current position with the understanding that you would be taking Miss Lake’s place as forensic technician. Miss Lake is retiring, from how many years working in laboratories, no one is certain.

"For what, exactly, Miss Howland?" Miss Lake asks, her face pensive and drawn as she slowly stirs her tea.

"Retirement," you answer quietly, settling heavily into your chair as you watch the curling steam rise from Miss Lake’s drink. Today has been hard; the triple homicide you worked the first days of your employment had gone to trial, and a verdict was finally reached today.

Miss Lake ceases her movements, dark eyes affixed on the gentle sloshing of her drink. She takes in a deep breath slowly, as if savoring the air in her lungs, and the strange, cold look to her eyes creeps back in around the edges.

"I think," she breathes out, the British lilt to her voice uncommonly thick. She lifts her head to look at you and you feel pinned by emotion you cannot name in her eyes.

"I think I will find something to do," she finishes brightly, smiling so suddenly you feel the air rush out of your lungs at the change in the air.

You flounder for breath as you try to regain your balance, your hands twitching uselessly on the table. You regret your decision to forego a drink today, the emptiness between your fingers like miles between you and being on steady ground once more.

"Are you worried about what I will do with myself after leaving the lab?" Miss Lake teases, lifting her cup up and smirking gently at you over its rim.

Your mind is still whirling around, scattering your thoughts and loosening your tongue.

"I have an aunt," you explain, startling both yourself and Miss Lake by answering. "She’s retiring as well. She won’t do well in the absence of her job."

Miss Lake hums, studying you as your body flushes with anxiety and embarrassment at your unusual lack of control.

"Well, Miss Howland," she says gently, smiling with her eyes so they crinkle fetchingly in the corners, "I suppose I could always use a pen-pal in my impending freedom."

You shake your head, flushing with a blushing heat once more as you think of a way to explain precisely what you are asking.

"I just want to know," you begin, breaking off for a beat to pluck the correct words from your mind. "How do you move on? When you can feel the end coming before you can see it, how do you walk away in one piece?"

The strange coldness rushes into the whole of Miss Lake’s eyes this time, and once again you are pinned in place by the overwhelming, haunted feeling that seems to drape itself over you.

Something moves behind Miss Lake’s eyes, broken bits of something, and a lost look of desperation encompasses her face.

"I don’t know," she breathes in a rattling kind of way, as if part of her has just been lost with the breath that formed the words.

All you can focus on is that, for once, Miss Lake doesn’t know something.

——

"Is this seat taken?"

You glance up from your newspaper, startled, only to find Miss Lake poised behind the chair across the table, two steaming cups of tea in her hands.

"Miss Lake," you reply, a small smile stretching across your face as you gesture towards the second seat. "Please, sit."

Miss Lake smiles in return, maneuvering gracefully to sit down and sliding the second cup of tea in your direction.

You glance at the cup critically before raising an eyebrow at Mis Lake. “You know I don’t favor tea.”

Miss Lake shrugs, grinning mischievously as she raises her own cup to her lips. “There’s always time to change your mind.”

You purse your lips, reaching slowly for the cup and breathing out a soft sigh at the heat that diffuses into your hands. Miss Lake says nothing as you gingerly sip at the tea, but her eyes twinkle merrily anyway.

You hum in surprise at the lack of overbearing bitterness you associate with tea and the presence of a delicate strand of sweetness in the drink.

"Did you fix this?" you ask, gesturing to your cup as you look up at Miss Lake.

She raises a shoulder gracefully, long strands of dark hair slipping silkily from the sleeve of her jacket. “I might have touched it up a bit.”

It’s a common expression, but something about the way Miss Lake says it makes you want to laugh. You smile instead, and cover your amusement with your drink.

As you take another careful sip, your phone begins ringing and you quickly set the tea down before you manage to spill any. Glancing up at Miss Lake, you gesture feebly at your phone before answering it as she waves you on.

"Hello?" you offer firmly.

_"Michelle, hi."_

You recognize your aunt’s voice, and you smile unwittingly. “Hi, Aunt-“

 _"Hey, Michelle,"_  she cuts you off,  _"I don’t have a lot of time but I wanted to call you."_

Worry flares up at her words, and you cock your head as you readjust your phone. “Is everything ok?”

There’s shuffling from the other end of the line and your aunt speaking to someone off to the side. _"Yeah, everything’s fine, we’re just about to take off and I wanted to call you-"_

Your heart drops a bit as you realize what she is trying to tell you.

"You have another meeting," you interject quietly.

On the other end you can now hear your aunt arguing with a flight attendant for a few more minutes on the phone.  _"Michelle, I’m so sorry, but we just got word this morning and even if we do make it back early-"_

"It’s fine," you cut in, tempering your voice, "You should go before they ask you to leave the plane."

Your aunt is silent for a beat.  _"Are we good?"_

"Yeah," you sigh gently, smiling slightly. "We’re good. But you owe me one."

_"I know. I’ll make it up to you, I promise."_

"It’s fine," you reassure her, absently sliding a finger around the rim of your cup. "Call me when you can."

_"Alright. Talk to you later."_

The line disconnects, and you set your phone down on the table as you sigh. Across the table Miss Lake sips her tea slowly, raising an eyebrow in question.

"That was your aunt?" she asks, absently flicking her hair over her shoulder.

You nod, smiling tightly as you lift your cup to your lips. “Just telling me I’m down a guest to a meeting. It’s fine, her job isn’t the most consistent, and I knew there was a chance she couldn’t make it.”

Miss Lake hums in interest, allowing her elbows to come to rest on the very edge of the table and leaning forward. “What meeting, if you don’t mind my asking?”

You blush brightly, knowing you walked straight into having to explain.

"My alma mater asked me to come and talk to the current students in the department I graduated from," you explain sheepishly, suddenly very interested with the bottom of your cup. "I guess it’s kind of a presentation. My aunt was going to come spend a few days here beforehand and then go with me."

Miss Lake smiles widely, setting her cup down and folding her hands on the table. “That’s wonderful, Miss Howland! You should have mentioned something while I was still at the lab, I would have brought it up at the monthly staff meeting.”

"No, no, it’s fine," you blush again, shaking your head vehemently. "It’s just a small talk, nothing to really bring up."

Miss Lake stares at you for a long moment, her index finger tapping a short tattoo on the table. “Well it’s a shame your aunt couldn’t make it,” she finally concludes, sitting back in her chair.

Humming a small noise of agreement, you stare at the table, hands gently opening and closing around your cup. A sudden thought runs through your head, and you snort in laughter before you can catch yourself.

Miss Lake glances up, startled, before huffing out a chuckle of her own.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asks with an arch of her eyebrow, her dark eyes twinkling merrily as she smiles slyly.

“That depends,” you reply without missing a beat, surprised at the easy banter between the two of you, “Do you fly coach or first class?”

——

“Michelle!”

You turn around sharply, self-conscious as you scan the tables around you for the source of your name. The search begins to stretch on, and you wrap your coat even tighter around yourself as you feel an embarrassed flush begin to fill your cheeks with heat. Another guest blusters through the door, bringing with them a blast of arctic chill and snow into the ballroom. You turn to shield your face from the worst of the gust of air just in time to see a lithe hand wave lazily at you from above one of the tables.

It only takes a moment for you to set off at a brisk pace through the maze of seated guests and their tables, ducking and weaving your head around waiters and passing attendees to get a good look at your destination.

Miss Lake is lounging, if such grace can truly be called that, aside the head of the AFSA department, one hand gently holding a lush, yet delicate stole around her shoulders, the other wrapping teasingly around the stem of a Bordeaux glass. Dr. Ellis, the department head and your former professor, is laughing at something Miss Lake must have said, his arms resting on the table in front of him.

You pull up short at the edge of their table, breathing heavily from the effort to cross the room, and wait to be permitted to sit.

“Michelle,” Dr. Ellis notices you with a start, quickly standing and offering his hand. “It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise,” you answer with a sharp nod, darting your hand out to take his in a single, firm shake.

You incline your head towards Miss Lake, flipping the large wooden buttons on your coat open with practiced and efficient ease. “Miss Lake,” you murmur in address as the coat slides off your bare shoulders and you gather it smoothly onto one arm.

Miss Lake pauses, perusing the length of your deep purple dress, her eyes lingering on the gold comb keeping your hair tightly twisted with that creeping coldness you’ve seen before.

“You look lovely, Michelle,” she offers quietly, uncharacteristically demure.

You offer an equally quiet thank you as you sit, unsure what to make of the change in Miss Lake’s mood. Dr. Ellis seems to be oblivious to the shift and makes a comment you only half hear that has Miss Lake glancing around the room, the coldness slowly slipping back behind amusement.

It isn’t until the party is in full swing that you realize Miss Lake has called you Michelle, instead of her usual address of “Miss Howland”.

——

“I don’t think I congratulated you on your lecture.”

You look up from your phone to find Miss Lake standing in the doorway of the ballroom, her silhouette cutting a shadow from across the hallway.

“Oh,” you wave her off, pushing a strand of loose hair back into place, “It wasn’t a lecture, really. And I think I was too nervous for any of the kids to really listen.”

Miss Lake clicks her tongue, stepping out of the doorway and crossing the space to the wall of windows you’re tucked against.

“A lecture is a lecture, and should be congratulated as such,” she insists, coming to rest against one of the railings. “Dr. Ellis is not the type of man to ask unqualified persons to come and talk to his students. And your lecture was very effective; quite a few students were taking notes.”

You blush at the compliments, choosing to try and ignore the implications and focus on your phone’s screen once more. The receptions bars dip down once more, and you curse under your breath as you move your phone upward.

“My aunt tried to call me,” you explain to Miss Lake’s look of confusion. “At least I think she did. I can’t tell, the reception in the building is atrocious. I was hoping getting closer to the windows would help, but…”

You let yourself trail off, shaking your phone and sighing as nothing changes. You glance up, out of the windows, and look over the campus you once called home, now blanketed in a fresh layer of powdery snow.

“Dr. Ellis spoke very highly of you,” Miss Lake interrupts quietly, shifting to stand next to you facing the windows. “He said you were the brightest student he’s ever had.”

Miss Lake pauses, staring intently at the winter scene below her. “He also said he was very disappointed you didn’t apply to graduate school; he had hoped to make you a member of his research staff. Which begs the question…”

Miss Lake turns to you then, and you can feel her eyes intently on your face. You grip the railing under your hand tightly as fear and panic bubbles up in your chest.

“Why would a student with such potential,” Miss Lake begins, her shawl rustling gently as she sways minutely, “move to California, and leave such opportunities behind, opportunities that would lead them to a much better position than lab technician?”

You begin to shake as her words slip forth, bringing with them every reason you had hoped to avoid this campus and faculty. Memories begin to press out from the corners of your mind you had pinned them down to, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you will them to return to their hidden places.

Miss Lake is silent next to you, but the air around the two of you is expectant, and for once in your life you feel the need to tell the whole story to someone.

“I had someone,” you begin shakily, keeping your eyes closed in shame. “I thought- I thought they were the one. And they left. And to be certain, I wanted them back but I- I was ashamed that I couldn’t… I thought that I had done something to run them off, that maybe I had done something wrong.”

You open your eyes, staring at your own reflection in the glass. “So I went after them. Picked everything up on a last ditch effort and left to California. I thought that we could fix things. By the time I found them, they’d moved on. Found someone else and made their own life without me. I hadn’t told anyone what I was doing, so when the job opportunity in San Francisco came my way, I took it, and told everyone that it was the reason I left.”

Your eyes seem endless in the dark of the hallway and you scowl at your own reflection. “I was an idiot. An idiot to fall in love and an idiot to think I could stay that way. But most of all I was an idiot to think I could keep happiness around.”

“No.”

Miss Lake’s voice is steely, insistent and demanding in a way that forces you to turn and see if she truly spoke.

“No,” she repeats, her eyes burning in the darkness, a messy mixture of angry, helpless, and cold as you stare back at them. “You are not- Michelle, you are  _not_  an idiot. Having hope, believing in someone…”

Miss Lake falls silent. She blinks rapidly, her eyes catching the light with a glassy shine that gives away the tears that begin to form.

“I have been the one to run away,” she confesses quietly, so quietly you think you might have misheard her. “I had my reasons and I believed them to be true. In the end, what I gained and what I lost were incomparable, but I could not- I  _would_   _not_  be here without hope, without my moments of happiness.”

Your throat is tight with emotion, the pain in Miss Lake’s eyes giving form to the pain you ignored until it no longer hurt.

“I still remember her,” Miss Lake continues, a broken little smile turning up the corners of her mouth, “still think of the choice I made, and what I left behind. You will not be forgotten, Michelle, or ever fully replaced. Of that I can assure you.”

A string of responses flashes through your head, but you push them all to the side. What could you say that wouldn’t cheapen Miss Lake’s moment of openness.

“What was her name?” you hear yourself ask, unaware the question was even on the edge of your mind.

Miss Lake stares at you for a long moment, her dark eyes growing cold once more. In that moment, in the weak light of the hallway, you think that she looks like a statue – unmoving and marbled, eyes flat and empty.

A breath escapes from between her lips, a haunting, grasping thing that floats into the space between the two of you and lingers.

“Myka Bering,” she breathes finally, her lips barely moving with the effort of speaking. A cold spike forms at the small of your back and rockets its way across your spine.

Shrill beeps break the moment, and you have to stare at your hand for a long moment before you realize that your phone is ringing. It takes another fumbling moment for you to accept the call and raise the phone to your ear.

“Hello?” you ask flatly, staring wide-eyed at the floor next to Miss Lake’s feet.

_“Michelle! Oh thank god I finally got you. Where are you?”_

You blink, “What?”

_“Where are you? I’ve been walking around in the snow for a half-hour trying to find the right building and now I have but I didn’t see you in the ballroom so I’m downstairs.”_

You hear the words, but they don’t seem to make enough sense, so you repeat them in your head. “You’re… here?”

“ _Yes,”_  comes the exasperated reply from the other end.  _“I was going to surprise you, our meeting ended way early, but I can’t find you and would you just tell me where you are?”_

You lift your head to look at Miss Lake, your brain firing off with this new information, and you make a split second decision.

“Head towards the open area next to the main staircase,” you bite out in an order, watching as Miss Lake grows concerned with your words. “Do you remember what we talked about the summer before I went to college?”

The other end is silent for a moment, and you’re sure your aunt is trying to make sense of your jump in topic.

_“Wha- I- Yeah, I- Yes, but what the hell does that have to do-”_

“Keep that conversation in mind and stay exactly where I told you,” you cut in, not waiting for a response before hanging up the phone.

You can tell Miss Lake is ready to question what exactly you’re doing, but you cut her off by reaching forward and taking her hand in yours.

“Can you run in heels?” you ask solemnly. Miss Lake fumbles with words for a moment before managing to answer yes.

“Good,” you reply just before giving her hand a sharp, hard tug, and running as fast as you can to the closest staircase.

Miss Lake adapts almost instantaneously and keeps a good pace behind you, spluttering out questions as you lead the two of you down the switchbacks of the east side stairs. It isn’t until you work your way down to the second floor, on the last landing of the staircase, that you take a moment to briefly glance over the railing onto the first floor atrium and stop Miss Lake next to the opposite side.

“My aunt is here,” you explain in a rush, “and it is very important that the two of you meet each other, but before you do there’s something you should probably know.”

Miss Lake opens her mouth to question you, but you dart around her and lead her to the edge of the landing by her shoulders, just far enough for her to see your aunt on the ground floor beneath the two of you.

“My mother’s maiden name is Bering,” you whisper as your aunt turns around and tilts her head to see the two of you.

The body beneath your hands tenses, and you step back slowly, a smile creeping across your face as Miss Lake pauses for only a moment before taking a first halting step down, then another, before allowing herself to descend in a tumble of skirts and feet.

Another moment is broken as your phone goes off once more, and you glance at the screen before picking up with a grin.

“Heeeeeelloooo.”

_“Hey Michelle, it’s Pete. Have you heard from Myka yet? She was supposed to meet up at your banquet/lecture thing but apparently the weather’s bad and reception’s crap, so…”_

“Oh she’s here,” you answer slyly, slowly making your way back up the stairs. “I just introduced her to my former supervisor at the lab.”

“ _Huh,”_  Pete grunts from the other end, and wherever he is, you can hear Claudia and Steve in the background.  _“Who’s that?”_

“Miss Emily Lake,” you say smugly, reaching up to reposition a flyaway hair.

The other end goes completely silent, and you can hear Claudia and Steve asking Pete what’s wrong. He says something away from the phone mic, and there’s a heavy pause that permeates both ends of the line.

“ _No fucking way,”_  is the only coherent thing you hear from your aunt’s co-workers before the line erupts in chaotic talking and yelling.

You pull the phone away from your ear to avoid bursting an eardrum and take a moment to glance over the staircase railing down on your aunt and Miss La- no.

 _Helena_.

They’re wrapped around each other, still in the silence of the atrium, and you look away quickly, feeling as though you might intrude on a most-private moment. The noise from your phone tapers off and you bring it back to your ear.

“ _Michelle, how the hell did that happen?”_

You smile lightly, thinking back to that first day Helena insisted on going out for coffee.

“We were in a coffee shop…”


End file.
